


Very Peculiar Feeling

by Aisalynn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Briefly anyway, M/M, NOW WITH AN EPILOGUE!, and Christopher Marlowe quotes, and a touch more angst, and fluff, but angst with a happy ending, i basically loved the first half of the third episode so much, probably over used tropes, that i wrote some more of it, with some sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-20 01:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19367794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisalynn/pseuds/Aisalynn
Summary: It burned, the first time he came up from hell to earth. He was surrounded by the Almighty’s creation, and as he slithered through the Garden the touch of it was like fire against his scales.The angel was worse: imbued with Their Holy Light, a fiery sword clasped in his hand as he guarded the eastern gate. Crowley could barely look at him. He was curious, though, so despite the burn of the wall against the souls of his feet, and the searing Light against his eyes, Crowley sidled up to the angel for a conversation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was inspired by a post I saw on tumblr not long after the show came out. Just now finishing it because I broke my pinky and typing takes forever now. I have read the book as well as watched the TV show, but the last re-read was several years ago so this is mostly TV show based.

“I’m astonished you can’t feel it,” Aziraphale said, one hand going up to gently rest on his chest like a genteel Victorian lady. “Love. Flashes of love.”

Crowley just ignored him.

Of course he couldn’t sense it. Demons could not sense love, as a rule. It wasn’t exactly under their purview. By design they were more in tune with the sins humans were prone to. Lust. He could sense that one, of course, and Greed. Pride. Sloth—he was particularly fond of Sloth. He appreciated the act of doing nothing himself so he had no trouble encouraging that in humans.

He could also sense the emotions and mindsets that might _lead_ to sin. Doubt. Despair. Even the ones that bordered on love. Infatuation, for instance, or obsession.

Crowley could identify with that one too.

The Bentley jerked as they hit a pothole in the road, jostling them both. The angel swayed closer to Crowley at the motion, his shoulder almost brushing the demon’s. Crowley just resisted the urge to flinch away, the muscles in his back pulling tight.

Then there was the other thing.

 

\--

 

It burned, the first time he came up from hell to earth. He was surrounded by the Almighty’s creation, and as he slithered through the Garden the touch of it was like fire against his scales.

The angel was worse: imbued with Their Holy Light, a fiery sword clasped in his hand as he guarded the eastern gate. Crowley could barely look at him. He was curious, though, so despite the burn of the wall against the souls of his feet, and the searing Light against his eyes, Crowley sidled up to the angel for a conversation.

Demons weren’t given the mercy of not remembering what it was like before the Fall. He could recall with perfect clarity how it felt to be apart of the Lord, to have Their Light shining through every aspect of his existence, to be filled with a fierce Joy at Their constant presence, and he was sure he would never forget the absolute despair he felt when it was ripped away from him. Even as the angel’s presence on the wall burned him, he longed for it.

It was probably the reason it took him so long to realize that the flaming sword the angel—Aziraphale—had carried was gone. He was too distracted by the pain and grief being near him caused to realize that the Light had dimmed a little. It was not, however, what pushed him to accept Aziraphale’s offer of shelter, shuffling on burning feet to huddle under the angel’s wing against the storm. The offer had surprised the demon, but not as much as the angel’s—perhaps unintended, at the time—small act of defiance. Crowley knew of no other angel who would dare give away his appointed Holy Weapon so that the humans could have a little warmth and safety away from the Garden they had been cast out of.

The rain droplets stung as they slipped through Aziraphale’s feathers, tiny pinpricks of pain along Crowley’s skin, but he didn’t move away. He was different, this angel, and much like Eve, Crowley was curious.

Even in The Beginning Crowley had been better at encouraging the sins he was prone to himself.

 

\--

 

It didn’t take long for the world to stop burning with the Lord’s presence. Every sin the humans committed sank into the ground, weighing it down. He felt a significant drop in the sensation once Cain spilt his brother’s blood across the earth, and by the time he heard rumors of a giant boat being built he could tread across any surface except places of worship without so much as a tingle.

Aziraphale, however, burned just as brightly as ever.

It was like flames licking against his skin as they both huddled on the wretched boat, hidden from the humans’ sight as the storm raged around it—another act that surprised Crowley. Aziraphale should have, by all rights, stopped Crowley from boarding, leaving him instead to the mercy of the storm. Sure, only his mortal body would have drowned with the humans, and he would have returned with another once the world was inhabitable again, but still, he wasn’t keen on discorporating that way. Neither was the angel, it seemed, as he hurried Crowley onto the boat, one wing hovering over his own head and the other once again over Crowley’s, protecting them both from the rain.

At first, Crowley tried to keep his distance during the storm. If he stayed on the opposite side of the boat the angel’s presence only irritated him, like an itch under the skin he couldn’t soothe.

But Crowley was bored.

There was only so much you could do on a boat, especially one so jammed packed full of animals, and with an angel who went out of his way to thwart any mischief Crowley got up to, entertainment was very limited indeed.  After more than a fortnight of staring at the rough wooden walls of the boat, surrounded by the stench of animal dung and tired of listening to the constant sound of the downpour, Crowley decided it was worth a little pain if he could experience some decent conversation.

Actually, _any_ conversation at that point would have been worth it.

The angel apparently felt the same. Instead of the usual surprise at his presence followed by the cool, but polite responses to Crowley’s questions that their previous meetings had comprised of, the angel’s reaction to Crowley approaching was an expression of rather obvious _relief_.

It quickly became apparent that Aziraphale was just as bored as Crowely.

“The food,” Aziraphale sighed mournfully as he stared out at the raging waters around them, “is dreadful. I didn’t even bother with it when I saw what they brought.” They were standing at the bow of the ship, wings curved over their heads against the miserable drizzle.

“Well, it’s got to last the time it takes for the whole world to flood and dry up again, doesn’t it? Can’t be very good at all.” Crowley also stared out across the water. Not because there was anything interesting to see—the view had been the same for the last several weeks now—but because it was easier than squinting at the bright Light coming from his companion.

The angel sighed again. He did that a lot, Crowley noticed. “Yes, I know. And of course, I shouldn’t eat any of it anyway. They are going to need it to last as long as it can.”

“They could always eat some of the animals if it comes down to it,” Crowley suggested. “I am sure there are some species that won’t be missed, and that unicorn is useless now.” From the corner of his eye he saw Aziraphale shoot him a look he was sure the angel _thought_ was unamused but really came off as the opposite. “The real tragedy here,” he continued, “is the complete lack of drinkable wine on this god forsaken boat.”

 _“_ This boat has _not_ been forsaken,” Aziraphale argued, voice stern.

Crowley did turn to look at him then, forcing himself not to squint against the pain in order to pin the angel with a level look. “No, just everything else.”

The angel shifted uncomfortably and turned away from his gaze, hands tugging on his clothing in a fussy, nervous gesture as he looked away.

Point to the demon, Crowley thought smugly.

As if to underline it, lightning suddenly streaked the sky above them, followed immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. The rain renewed its efforts with gusto, soaking them despite the shelter of their wings. Crowley looked up at his dripping feathers with a scowl, unable to help the displeased noise escaping his throat. With a thought, he was dry, the water sliding off and around his wings like they were duck feathers. Another thought, and he did the same for the angel.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, shoulders immediately relaxing. “Oh, thank you.” He flicked Crowley a surprised look, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile.

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley muttered, already regretting having given in to the impulse. What was the point of wasting a demonic miracle on an angel? Aziraphale could have done that himself, had he wanted to, and if the head office ever checked the records… Well, that one would be a bit hard to explain away.

Beside him Aziraphale was still shooting him those quick, curious glances, that sort of baffled but pleased look not leaving his face. Around him the Light grew even brighter, as if the water he was now free of had been slowly dousing it, and Crowley was suddenly caught between the urge to escape and run from the burning sensation as it grew or to step a few feet closer and lean into it.

He settled for walking a few feet away, nonchalantly leaning against the railing as if the new vantage point was the sole reason for his movement.

“There was this one merchant in Lagash,” Aziraphale murmured from behind him, “that just had the best wine.” Crowley turned around to face the angel, leaning back on his elbows against the railing. “His wife also made this delicious spiced lamb stew…” the angel trailed off, looking past Crowley to the water beyond, a small crease between his brows. “It’s...it’s a shame to think that they’re gone now,” he finished softly.

Crowley raised his eyebrows, mouth involuntarily dropping a little. That was almost a criticism of the Divine Plan. Crowley thought about pushing and encouraging the angel’s doubt or about pouring salt on the wound and mocking the angel for his allegiance to a capricious, vengeful God—you know, typical demon stuff—but something about Aziraphale’s expression made him hesitate. That little crease between eyes, maybe, or the uncertain set of his mouth, lips downturned as he stared out at the churning water. A feeling of familiarity was tugging at him as he examined his face, for a moment even stronger than the pain he felt at the angel’s proximity.

He turned away, dragging his gaze away from Aziraphale and instead focusing it on the world around them. The water stretched as far as even his demonic vision could see, the murky waves turbulent from the storm, making the boat shudder and heave with their motion. He thought about the world below it, about humans with their tiny little houses and fields of barley and herds of goat and the children who tended them—running beside the animals in their bare feet, dirt streaked across their knees, faces flushed. He thought about wine merchants and spice traders and the petty arguments they would get into as they pushed their wares and the clever writing system they came up with in order to keep track of it all. He imagined those clay tablets broken at the bottom of a never ending sea, the symbols carved into them worn away.

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “It’s a shame.”

 

\--

 

After the flood, being around Aziraphale didn’t hurt as much. Maybe it was because he spent nearly a year on the boat with the angel getting used to the pain, or maybe it was just that the Holy Fire burning inside him had dimmed a little, but either way, each time they stumbled upon one another over the ages it became more and more...tolerable.

He realized after a millennia or two that the angel would burn brighter at certain times. Often when he seemed to be at his happiest: bent double over a dusty book or several glasses in to a particularly good wine vintage, but also when he had been moved to perform extraordinary acts of Mercy and Love, his angelic nature unable to resist reaching out and healing the sick, or the broken. Crowley thought perhaps it was that Aziraphale glowed brighter whenever he felt emotions that put him more intune with the Almighty. Though he mused sometimes, when they ended up chatting over oysters in Rome or a warm tray of baklava in Constantinople or after one memorable occasion when Crowley had to miracle their way out of a public execution for consuming too much octli in Tenochtitlan— _“This must be your side’s doing, angel. Only your lot would decide it was a good idea to execute people over getting drunk._ ”—that it could be the angel dimming his own Light, even if just subconsciously. It was too inconsistent otherwise.

The shades he had taken to wearing to hide his eyes did nothing against Holy Light, but at least, Crowley thought, it would hide his constant squinting whenever he looked in the angel’s direction. He also took pains to hide his reactions whenever Aziraphale got too close, holding his mortal form tight against its instinct to flinch from the pain.

There were times though, that it was difficult. One incident in particular.

Crowley had come across the angel when he was in Portugal sometime during the 16th century. When he was _reluctantly_ in Portugal. Their own Inquisition had just started up and Crowley, having seen enough of what it would entail from the Spanish one, wanted to be anywhere else at the time. The only reason he was there at all was because the head office insisted and he had been unable to find the angel in time to talk him into going in his place.

When he had found Aziraphale performing a blessing on behalf of a Catholic priest and realized he could have avoided being there had he found the angel after all, he was so irritated with everything that he ended up picking a fight. He pushed and pushed at the angel in a way he never had before, even before the Arrangement, until Aziraphale was so filled with righteous fury that the Light surrounding him was blinding.

It was terrifying, in the truest sense of the word.

For one brief moment the angel shed his mortal facade. His form was an outline of pure, burning Light, four massive wings stretching back and upwards behind him, multiple sets of eyes glaring fiercely down at Crowley from his many faces. Had the angel not given away his sword Crowley knew it would have been grasped in one of his hands, burning hot and fierce like the pillars of fire at his feet.

The angel’s fury _burned_. Not like the sun or like fire or like anything Earthly. This was Holy, and Crowley hadn’t felt pain and terror like this since he Fell. It was both Wondrous and Terrible, and it was familiar. He wanted to tear his eyes away, cover them. Fall to his knees and hide his face in his palms. He wanted to move closer, to feel those Heavenly flames burn up his mortal body and once again fill his Self with The Lord’s heat.

Crowley could not move. He could not look away.

Then the moment was over. Azirphale stood in front of him once again, dressed in his neat, but slightly frumpy clothing, his light blond hair curling softly against his forehead. “Oh, my dear,” he said wretchedly, his face awash with regret. “I am so sor—”

Crowley didn’t let him finish. He turned on his heal and marched away, sheer stubbornness the only thing keeping his spine straight as he all but fled. He managed to make it several streets away before he ducked into a dark alley and he slumped against the wall of the building, hands shaking.

It was nearly a century before he allowed himself to be in the angel’s presence again, even though by that point they rarely went more than a few decades before seeing each other. Aziraphale immediately attempted to apologize again for “losing his temper” but Crowley waved him away, changing the subject. The heat he felt from the angel was again banked to a manageable level and when he had to reach over Aziraphale’s outstretched arm on the table in order to refill his tea the shaking in his hand was limited to a slight, almost non-existent tremor.

That incident aside, Crowley thought he had done a fine job of hiding what exactly the angel’s presence did to him. It was only after nearly six millennia of knowing each other and less than a century from the Apocalypse that Crowley realized how wrong he was.

The lift home he had offered the angel after he followed Crowley out of the thoroughly destroyed church—the head office was going to love that one—was interrupted by a detour for a “quick nibble” and that was extended with an invitation to join Aziraphale in his bookshop for an after dinner drink.

One drink never failed to turn into several, _especially_ at Aziraphale’s bookshop, where the entire building resonated with the angel’s presence. To any mortal that stepped inside it would appear dark, and cluttered and dusty and Crowley could see that too, with the eyes of his human form, but Crowley was not mortal. To him the bookshop practically glowed, like coal at the bottom of a stove, ready to be coaxed into a blaze. He could run his fingertips along the spines of the books and tell which ones were the angel’s current favorites by the residual heat they gave off, and he made a point to stay away from Aziraphale’s desk or favorite cocoa mug, lest they scald him.  

He was three drinks in—the minimum it took to start dulling his senses enough that the burn around him was downgraded to mild discomfort—and the angel had decided to take the opportunity to go over each and every book Crowley had saved from the bomb and why it was such a good reason he did so. Crowley wasn’t really listening, just giving an occasional encouraging hum whenever there was a break in the angel’s happy babble, steadily sipping from his glass and generally doing a good job of getting quite thoroughly sloshed.

He squinted vaguely at the books in the angel’s hands, at the soft glow emanating from them, and wondered if he stayed in Aziraphale’s presence long enough if he too, would glow. If that soft Light would cradle him like he was a beloved book, leather binding worn smooth from repeated readings.

“Stop it.”

Crowley looked up in surprise, realizing abruptly that Aziraphale had stopped talking several minutes ago. Instead the angel was frowning at him from across the table, his brow pulled down in a concerned crease over his eyes.

“Stop what?” Crowley nonchalantly took another sip of his wine.

“Brooding.”

He scoffed. “I don’t brood, angel.”

“Yes you do,” the angel replied quickly, dismissively. “And I think I know what you are brooding about.”

Oh, well that was interesting. He waved one hand magnanimously. “Do tell.”

Aziraphale looked away from Crowley, staring instead at his own hands as he carefully closed the book he had laid out on the table before him. He smoothed his palm against the cover and took a deep breath, as if preparing himself, before finally looking up. “You are thinking of the Holy Water you saw in the church.”

Crowley quickly sat up straight in his chair, nearly spilling his drink in his surprise. Not just over the fact that actually, the Holy Water _wasn’t_ what was on his mind, but also because apparently the angel had it on _his._ After Aziraphale had stormed off a century ago he didn’t think the angel would ever willingly bring that particular request up again.

“No, I wasn’t thinking about that. But since you brought it up—”

Aziraphale cut him off. “I can’t help you get any, Crowley.” Instead of the anger of last time, the angel’s voice held a distinct note of apology. “I will not provide you with the means with which to destroy yourself.”

Behind his glasses, Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, not that again,” he muttered. “How many times do I have to tell you that isn’t what I want it for?”

“Isn’t it?”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, one hand going up to point at the angel, but hesitated when he took in the look on Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s features were screwed up into an expression of such tenderness, such concern that it was like looking at Crowley _pained_ him.

“Don’t think I don’t notice, Crowley,” he said lowly.

Crowley’s mouth felt dry. “Notice what?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes. You’re a demon.” Every word the angel spoke came out carefully, slowly, as if he knew they would hurt, but he met Crowley’s eyes with a steady gaze. Crowley tensed, bracing himself for what Aziraphale would say next. “Being around an angel hurts you.”

He relaxed, slumping against the chair. Oh, _that_.

Sure, this was going to be an uncomfortable conversation, but not nearly as bad as he thought a moment ago. He grabbed his glass off the table and took a large swig, hoping to drown the almost disappointed feeling sitting low in his stomach.

“It hurts all demons,” he said offhandedly. “Part of the gig.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. His tone didn’t change. “But you look at me like you want it to.”

Crowley froze, hand suspended in the act of putting his glass down. “Angel,” he said warningly.

But Aziraphale kept going. “You’re a demon,” he said again. “But you used to be an angel. I can only imagine what it is like to Fall, to be cut off from the Glory and Joy of the Almighty—”

“Stop.” The wine spilled across his hand as Crowley practically dropped the glass on the table.

“—to feel Grace ripped away from you. You look at me like you want it to _consume_ you. Lord only knows what you will do in order to feel it again. And now you are trying to get your hands on Holy Water—”

 _“Aziraphale, enough,”_ he rasped out.

The angel stopped.

They were still for a moment. Crowley thought darkly about the tableau they made: the tormented demon on one side of the table, hands clenched into the arms of the chair, the glowing angel on the other side, looking at him in pity. Crowley’s lip curled in disgust, and he sat up, miracling away the spilled wine with a flick of his wrist.

Across from him Aziraphale cleared his throat. “ _Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it. Think'st thou that I who saw the face of God —_ ”

“Oh, don’t quote Marlowe at me,” Crowley snapped, cutting him off.

“Why not? You knew him, from what I remember. In fact, the rumour was that you were the one who inspired his more heretical works.”

“Got it all wrong. Taken completely out of context,” Crowley grumbled. “And if you had ever been to Hell you would know the world is _nothing_ like it.” He was relieved at the change of subject, however.

The angel had gotten it all wrong.  

Sure, it wasn’t like that use for the Holy Water hadn’t crossed his mind—especially since the angel seemed fixated on it—but Aziraphale had missed one of the biggest reasons he would never consider it.

Somehow, over the years, Crowley had stopped associating the Light that emanated from the angel with the Lord that had cast him out of Heaven and instead just associated it with Aziraphale himself. Unacknowledged, but in the back of his mind it stopped being the Almighty’s Light, the Almighty’s Fiery Glow and just started being...Aziraphale.

Aziraphale burned brighter when he was happy, Aziraphale burned hot when he was angry, Aziraphale’s skin stung his as their fingers brushed over the handle of a leather satchel full of not-exploded books. It was a constant, physical reminder of the other being that had shared this world with him for the last six thousand years, and these days if he looked like he wanted to get closer in order to feel the burn of it against him it was only that, well...

He wanted to get closer.

Crowley wasn’t about to tell Aziraphale that, however. For one thing, he didn’t think the angel would want to hear it, for another it bordered on blasphemy. So instead he just lifted his chin and met Aziraphale’s eyes from across the table.

“I won’t ask you for Holy Water again,” he promised softly.

Aziraphale hesitated, looking like he wanted to say something else—perhaps ask Crowley not to try to find a way to get it himself, even though he had to know Crowley would never agree—then finally nodded, accepting that the subject was closed.

 

\--

 

The rather confused bus driver dropped them off at Crowley’s building and the two of them wearily made their way up to the top floor. Once inside the flat, they stood quietly in the main room, not sure what to do now that the Apocalypse had been abruptly halted. Exhaustion weighed Crowley down and he wondered if the angel would consider it rude if Crowley just collapsed on his bed and slept for a good day or two. Neither of them actually needed to sleep, but Crowley had taken a liking to it, even if Aziraphale never had.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale said warily, jerking him from the daze he had been sinking into. “What is _that?_ ”

“Hm?” He looked at where the angel was pointing. “Oh, that was Ligur.”

“Ligur? What—” He walked over to the partly open doorway, stopping short when he realized what he was looking at. He slowly turned back around to face Crowley, and there was no mistaking the relief he saw on the angel’s face.

Crowley didn’t feel like going over all that now. “Tea?” He offered brightly.

Aziraphale looked taken aback at the abrupt change of subject, but he nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Great.” Crowley lazily raised one hand.

“Oh, no, don’t do it that way.” He reached out to stop him, fingers just stopping shy of touching Crowley’s wrist. “You’ve already angered Hell enough today. Best not add another miracle to the list.”

He dropped his hand with a sigh. “Alright.” He forced himself to walk into the kitchen and dig out his rather dusty kettle. By the time he returned, the newly clean kettle plugged in and heating up, the remains of Ligur were gone and Crowley could hear Aziraphale’s voice murmuring from another room.

“Oh, look at you! You are so green and lush. Lovely.”

Crowley cursed under his breath. “No no _no_.” He burst through the door the angel left cracked, unsurprised to see Aziraphale bent over one of his plants, practically cooing over the Sansevieria Laurentii. “Out, angel,” he snapped.

Aziraphale’s head jerked up. “Oh, Crowley! I was just admiring your houseplants. They really are quite wonderful.”

“ _Out,”_ he repeated. He stepped between Aziraphale and the plant, making shooing motions with his hands. “You are not going to undo all my hard work.”

“Oh, but...I was just…” He shot Crowley a confused look over his shoulder as he was ushered out of the room. “You know, it’s supposed to help them grow if you talk to them.”

Crowley sighed, exasperated. “I know that, angel.” Bother with not angering Hell anymore: with a thought there was a loud whistle coming from the kitchen. “Oh, there’s the kettle. Why don’t you go sit on the couch and I’ll bring out the tea.”

Aziraphale shot him one more bewildered look, but did as he was bid. Crowley spun on his heel and dragged a threatening scowl across all the plants in the room. They started to shake. Satisfied, he followed the angel out the door.

He quickly prepared the tea and marched back out of the kitchen, happy to see that the angel was in fact sitting on Crowley’s leather couch like he’d been asked. “Here you go, angel.” He passed the mug over as he sat down beside him.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale immediately brought it to his lips, eyes closing in pleasure as he took a sip.

For his part, Crowley was content for now to just sit with the mug cupped in his hands, enjoying the heat he could feel through the ceramic. He tipped his head back against the couch and closed his eyes, feeling the tired muscles in his mortal form relax bit by bit as they sat there in silence, letting time pass.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale eventually said, voice hesitant. “I was thinking…” he trailed off.

Crowley opened his eyes and lazily turned his head against the couch so he could peer at the angel. “Hm?”

“I was thinking,” the angel started again, “about what you said. About this being the Almighty’s plan all along.”

Crowley gave another encouraging hum, finally taking a sip of his tea. Despite the time that had passed, it was still scalding.

“Maybe… Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

He sat up at that, turning on the couch so he could face the angel. “What do you mean?”

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was facing straight ahead, gaze fixed on his tea. “I mean…” his fingers clenched against the mug and his words, which had been so hesitant before started pouring out of him in a rush. “We are the ones who have been here. Since the beginning. You and me. We have watched the humans in this world grow and change and develop miraculous things.”

“Books. Wine.” He nodded at Aziraphale’s mug. “Tea. Reality television.”

The angel ignored him. “We have been the—the _caretakers_ of this world for six millennia. If anyone has the right to defend it, it’s us. This world is not Heaven’s. Not Hell’s. It belongs to us. Us, and the creatures that exist in it. It’s _ours._ ”

Crowley felt like his eyebrows were about to lift right off his face as he stared at Aziraphale, taking in the fierce expression on his face. “You should be careful, angel,” he told him seriously. “You’re starting to sound a little blasphemous.”

Aziraphale finally turned to look at Crowley, the fierce expression on his face fading into one of surprise. “Oh,” he stuttered. “Well, I. I mean—”

Crowley waved his hand, leaning back against the couch again, deliberately lightening his tone. “Don’t sweat it. I won’t tell a soul.”

They sat quietly for a few more minutes, sipping their tea.

“Ours,” Crowley murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

Beside him, the angel hummed his agreement.

Crowley was once more leaning his head back against the couch, nearly asleep when the angel spoke up again.

“Who was it?”

“Who was what?”

“Your best friend. The one you lost.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me.” Beside him Aziraphale was giving him a sorrowful look, like there really was some other best friend and he was afraid that bringing it up would be painful for Crowley. “You really are too clever to be this stupid.”

The sorrowful expression changed to an affronted one. Much better.

“It was you,” he all but snapped at him, frustrated. “I went to your bookshop after I turned Ligur into a puddle here and it was on fire and you were—”

Gone. Aziraphale was gone. The book shop was in flames all around him and it was a dull, earthly burn. The bronze Light that used to surround the place even when the angel was away doused and in contrast the fire that licked away at the angel’s beloved books felt cool. Aziraphale was gone and there was no point in running anymore.

Crowley took off his glasses so the angel would have no doubt at his sincerity. “ _You_ are my best friend,” he told him. “My only friend. _The_ friend. My—my—” he stammered. “— _mine,”_ he finished awkwardly.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Oh. Well.” He looked down and fidgeted fussily with his sleeves. Crowley felt a small smile flicker across his face as he thought of how little his mannerisms had changed over the years.

“Well,” Aziraphale said again. He was shooting Crowley small, pleased glances out of the corner of his eye. “You know you are, uh, mine. As well.”

Crowley barely kept his smile from becoming a full grin. “Good.”

The angel nodded, returning the smile. “Y-yes. Good.”

“You can stay as long as you need to,” Crowley said abruptly. “Here, I mean. Or for as long as you want to, for that matter.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, lifting his tea, which despite his comments about not doing any miracles still somehow had steam rising from it. “That’s very—”

Crowley shot him a warning look.

“— _kind_ ,” the angel finished pointedly.

He huffed, and slumped further into the couch. The motion brought him closer to the angel, shoulders almost brushing. He supposed he would have to get used to being called kind and nice and all manner of other “good” things. He was cohabiting with an angel now, after all.

He quite liked the idea, now that he thought about it. Aziraphale’s Light surrounding the couch and the kitchen and the kettle. He would have to get bookshelves; he was certain the angel wouldn’t wait long before trying to replace his collection. He would need another desk, too. He didn’t quite fancy getting burned every time he touched his simply because the angel was too absorbed in his reading to get up every few days or so. The plants would get spoiled for sure, that couldn’t be helped. He would just have to be sure they knew no slacking would be acceptable just because some soft touched angel moved in.

Beside him Aziraphale’s heat was familiar. It felt to Crowley like sitting too close to a fire on a cold night, like letting the sun bake you while you were lying on the sand at the beach. It felt like flat, sun warmed stones against your scales, like holding a mug of tea in your palms, warmed just a hair over too hot.

It felt like love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *On Aziraphale's angel form:
> 
> The Cherubim were described in the bible like that, and they were the ones given the Fiery Sword and tasked with guarding the gates of Eden. They are the second tier of angels, under the Seraphim. The book lists him as a Principality though, so I am just gonna assume he started out as one of the Cherubim and was demoted after giving away his sword. He kept his super frightening form though.
> 
> * The Marlowe quote:
> 
> "Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.  
> Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God  
> And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,  
> Am not tormented with ten thousand hells  
> In being deprived of everlasting bliss?”
> 
> Kinda the whole concept behind Crowley's issues in this fic, even if he didn't want it quoted at him.


	2. Epilogue

Their lunch at the Ritz lasted for hours, stretching from afternoon into the evening. The daylight streaming from the windows faded, and they were instead ensconced in the warm glow provided by the flickering candles on their table and the chandeliers above them. The tables around theirs had a steadily changing stream of patrons, and they had a new server introduce themselves twice, but thankfully, perhaps _miraculously_ , no one had come along to suggest that they release the table to the crowd of people waiting to be seated.

Crowley watched fondly as Aziraphale consumed not one, not two, but _three_ desserts, savoring each one slowly, his eyes fluttering closed and a little hum of contentment resonating from his throat with every bite he found particularly scrumptious. With each new dish he offered Crowley a bite, leaning close as he held out the fork, his presence hotter than Crowley’s after meal coffee, and each time Crowley thought about wrapping his fingers delicately around the angel’s wrist in order to feel the burn of his skin against his palm, to pull Aziraphale closer and see just how much of his Light he could stand. 

Crowley kept his hands around his coffee, but accepted the bite, enjoying the look of pleasure that crossed the angel’s face more than the dessert itself.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hummed. He carefully folded up his napkin and placed it on top of his empty plate. “That was delightful.”

Crowley had stopped eating four courses ago, but he nodded his agreement anyway, completely sincere. 

“Well,” the angel said briskly, bracing both hands on the table as if to push away, “should we get the bill?”

Right. The bill. Which would be followed by them leaving. “You sure you don’t want to order anything else?” he asked lightly, as he had the previous two times Aziraphale had mentioned the check. “We are celebrating after all.”

Aziraphale placed one hand lightly against the top of his stomach. “Oh no, I really couldn’t.”

“Well then,” Crowley said reluctantly, “I suppose we should.”

If the angel noticed his tone he didn’t react, happily catching their server’s eye and then pouring out effusive praise for the meal as the table was cleared. Crowley sullenly fiddled with his coffee spoon, until that too was surrendered to the ever efficient wait staff at the Ritz. A few minutes more and the bill was settled, and they were stepping out into the cool evening air. 

Unseasonably cool air, actually. Crisp and refreshing and completely unlike what an August evening should be. Adam’s doing, no doubt.

Crowley tried not to resent it. 

Then he thought, hell, he was still a demon even if he did help put a halt to the final war between Good and Evil, he’ll go ahead and resent what he liked. 

He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders, resenting the nice evening as they made their way down Piccadilly, resenting the unusually light traffic that allowed them to easily cross it, resenting the angel who walked beside him, eyes open wide with an expression of frank appreciation on his face as they made their way, ever closer, to the bookshop.

Crowley especially resented the bookshop.

That morning he had gone to check on the bookshop because Aziraphale was expected to check on the bookshop. Instead of the pile of smoking rubble had fully expected to find, Crowley had walked into a cramped and dusty storefront that, to the untrained eye, would have looked exactly as it had before it burnt down. A slight nagging feeling, similar to the one you get when you spend the day trying to remember if you left the oven on, was the only sign that reality had been shifted. 

Even the bronze glow created by Aziraphale’s affection for the place still surrounded it. Crowley—in Aziraphale’s form—had walked slowly through the shop, trailing his fingertips along books spines, feeling their residual heat. There were dark and cool spots throughout the collection, new additions that the angel had never touched, obviously picked out by a precocious eleven year old mind. 

Crowley stood in his friend’s shop, surrounded by Aziraphale’s beloved books and his favorite chair, with his favorite cocoa mug still glowing on the corner of his desk, and felt disappointment sink like a heavy, jagged stone in his stomach.

It was the same feeling he was experiencing now as he watched the angel excitedly push open the door to his shop, the quaint bell attached to it chiming with the motion, its cheerful sound mocking Crowley. 

“Oh, it’s all here,” the angel sighed with relief. His hands fluttered around his Oscar Wilde collection before landing on a favorite edition in order to pull it out and gently flip through the pages, checking the footnotes. “Exactly as I left it.”

Crowley slumped against the doorframe. “Not _exactly,_  angel.” He nodded to the line of red books by the window, unable to help the twitch of his lips when he saw the angel immediately move to check them out, like a kid with a new toy. 

“Oh. Well,” the angel frowned a little as he read the titles. “Not really my taste. But I suppose I could sell them,” he mused. Crowley watched with amusement as he picked one of the books up, running his hand along the cover, and knew with certainty that the angel wouldn’t sell a single one. These books, just like almost every other one that made its way into the shop, would remain as a permanent part of Aziraphale’s collection. 

“Well,” Crowley said with forced cheer as he pushed himself away from the doorway. “Guess I should leave you to it! I’ll be off. We should do dinner again soon. Maybe the Ritz again, or that little Indian place you love so much. Next week?” As he spoke he looked at everything but the angel, making a big show of checking out the bookshop, peering out the windows. 

“Next week? Oh, but I thought…”

At the angel’s quiet words Crowley froze, bringing his roaming gaze back to Aziraphale in time to catch a brief look of dismay flicker across his face before being quickly smoothed over. 

“You thought what?” 

Aziraphale carefully placed the book back. “Never mind, my dear. It was unimportant.” When he looked back up at Crowley it was with a polite smile. “So next week? That sounds lovely.”

Crowley slowly stepped closer toward him. “Angel,” he prompted softly, seriously, “what did you think?”

Aziraphale avoided his gaze, instead looking down at his sleeves as he straightened his cuffs, then at his vest as he tugged on the hem. “It’s just last night, when we talked, you said—you called me—”

“My best friend,” Crowley murmured. 

The angel did look up then, eyes flashing up to capture Crowley’s with a determined look. “‘ _Mine.’_ The exact phrase you used was… ‘mine.’”

Crowley swallowed thickly. “Yes. I did.”

“Well,” Aziraphale licked his lips. “Well, that implies—I mean, I _thought_ it meant that —that we were a we. I mean, an us. That we were, ah, pairing off. You know, like the humans do. Cohabiting and all that.” His shoulders slumped as he took a deep breath and then released it. “But apparently I was wrong.” The corners of his lips tipped down into a small frown. 

Crowley could feel his pulse thundering under his skin as his mortal body reacted to the angel’s words. “You weren’t.” His voice came out as a low rasp and his hand shook as he lifted it to grab the frame of his shades, slipping them from his face. “You weren’t. Aziraphale.”

Slowly, carefully, he stepped closer to the angel, so close he could feel not just the heat of the Holy Light emanating from him, but his body heat. He then reached out one trembling hand and finally did what he wanted to all evening. 

It felt a little like dipping his hand into hot candle wax as he slid his palm against the angel’s, intertwining their fingers and closing around them with a soft squeeze. Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he sucked in a surprised gasp, and then the heat lessened slightly, as if he were deliberately tamping it down. 

Crowley tilted his head and caught the angel’s eyes, his lips quirked into a hopeful smile. “Pair off with me?”

“Oh.” The exclamation was a soft puff of air against Crowley’s skin. “Oh,” the angel repeated. He looked a little dazed. “Yes. Alright.”

Crowley felt his smile stretch into a full blown grin across his face. “Good.” He tugged lightly on Aziraphale’s hand. “Let’s go home then, shall we?”

Aziraphale ducked his head, eyes flicking up to meet his with a smile. “Yes, let’s.” He held up one finger. “But first, the books.” He let go of Crowley’s hand in order to walk over to his desk, pulling out from behind it a familiar leather bag. “You have nothing to read at your flat except those dreadful magazines you keep on your coffee table.”

“Tabloids. I invented them. Well, got credit for them anyway.” The angel was shuffling through a pile of books on one of the tables, discarding some and slipping others carefully into the bag. When he was done with those he walked over to one of the bookshelves and started pulling a few from them. “We don’t have to stay at my flat,” he said suddenly.

The angel shot him a surprised look. “Why wouldn’t we? I like your place.”

“No you don’t.” Crowley wasn’t even sure he liked it anymore. He kept thinking about the puddle of Ligur that wasn’t there anymore. 

“Well, I like your plants,” Aziraphale conceded. “They’re lovely. And Crowley, I don’t even have a bed here. I know how fond you are of sleeping.” He tried and failed to fit another book into the overly full bag. 

“Maybe we could get our own place. Together.” With a snap of his fingers another bag appeared in his hand. He held it out to the angel who took it with a grateful smile. “Take the plants with us. A cottage, perhaps. The South Downs. You’d like that.”

The angel stopped packing in order to stare at Crowley in astonishment. “You? In a cottage. Close to the sea. Crowley, you hate the sea.”

“I do not,” he protested.

Aziraphale went back to packing his books. “Yes, you do,” he insisted. “Ever since the ark.”

“Oh, okay then. But the beach is alright. Sunbathing and all that.”

“Serpent.” The angel flashed him and amused look. “You’ll get bored. I seem to recall exactly what type of trouble you get up to when you are bored. I refer again to the ark.” He snapped the bag closed. 

Crowley huffed. “It was just one new species.” He grabbed the other bag from the table. “A duck and a beaver breeding? That’s hilarious. Besides,” he said as they headed for the door, “you didn’t exactly go out of your way to thwart me once you realized.”

“Well, it was already a life form. I couldn’t do anything about it then. I am an angel after all,” he said primly. He stepped through the door Crowley opened for him. “And anyway, it was…” he muttered something too low for Crowley to hear.

“It was—?” 

“...cute,” the angel muttered.

Crowley threw back his head and laughed, loud and deep. He stepped out of the bookshop behind the angel and into the cool evening air, closing the door behind him. He would bring up the cottage again later. 

They had time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got way longer than I originally planned. But I just love writing these two.


End file.
